![1429508416023[1].png](https://i.imgur.com/TnQOrho.png "1429508416023[1].png")
I bet you thought, in the weeks and days and minutes before you hung yourself, about how sad we'd all be. About how we'd all be thinking about what more we could have done to keep you here. Guess what, Nick. You were wrong.
The night you died, we gathered at the apartment you shared with Melanie, and drank in celebration. Toasted to your memory, but not to you. Not to the person you really were. We drank to the memory of "Nick," the person we knew before you really became you.
We talked about our memories of all the good times we had with you before you changed. The nights spent drinking in food courts, knocking over trash cans in your Jeep, blissing out on acid to Aphex Twin.
We talked about pretty much every moment that predated the moment when your face sunk in, and you stopped laughing, and every brunch and party and gathering became a struggle to accommodate you. Or rather, the person you became.
How could you be so fucking selfish? To think we would sacrifice our own happiness to join you in the depths of your ugly, hateful problem. You became so angry, and bitter, and self-absorbed, that even someone else's birthday party had to become about you, and your stupid fucking disease. My birthday party, in fact. You ruined my 21st birthday with your narcissistic bullshit, Nick. An ambulance called to the bar, that I ended up paying for. You worthless piece of shit.
In a way, I guess I am a little bit upset that you died. Because I feel like you owe me part of my life back. The 4 years that were consumed with talking about you, and worrying about you. I never got that back from you. I never got back the money I loaned you, and the time I spent by your side while you vomited and wept. And now I never will.
But, to be honest, that little vengeful impulse is nothing compared to the wave of relief I felt when Melanie texted me that she had found you, blue and bloated, in the attic of the apartment the two of you shared. Do you know how much you hurt her? Do you know how much she suffered for you, hoping you would get better, rejecting other men who were healthy, and had some fucking willpower?
Do you know that for the last 4 months of your life, on a regular basis, I was fucking Melanie's throat in the moments when you were comatose, breathing heavily, with your body straining just to stay alive? After we put you to sleep on the sofa, with chicken soup and a blanket, shaking and weeping and begging us to stay with you?
Were you ever awakened, some Sunday morning, shaken from your stupor on the couch, just for a moment, by the sound of her in the bed that you shared, choking on my cock? Was that why you did this? If so, I'm glad. And proud.
Melanie sent me a Snapchat of your body before she called the cops. I bet you thought you would look cool, like you went out with style. Nope. Your pants were leaking shit and piss, and your tongue was sticking out, just this greyish purple protrusion, and your eyes were bugged out and bloodshot. And most importantly, your fingers were dug into the noose.
Even in that last moment, after you finally made a good decision, you went back on it. Because you wanted more. More support, more love, more time. Time to sap off our life energy, to demand our acknowledgment, to attach yourself like a parasite to happiness you didn't earn.
You always craved our attention. The leukemia was like a blessing to you. I could see it in the way you smiled. You loved every minute you spent in that hospital bed, surrounded in flowers, and out in public with us propping you up. You even loved vomiting in front of us, Nick. You would look me right in the eye while you did it.
You consumed our pity like you thought it would heal you. Honestly, I was surprised when you rejected that fourth round of chemotherapy. I felt sure you would stick around forever, haunting us. Like a goddamn ghost. A pale, sickly thing, consuming every free moment with his needy fucking needs.
But now you're gone. And guess what? You don't haunt me at all. It's been a week since you strung yourself up from the rafters, and this is the first time I've thought of you since the day it happened. Today I woke up, made coffee, and went through my phone. I deleted your number, and all the pictures of you that I felt obligated to take, and the long, idiotic messages you sent me, when you were freaking out about the possibility of your death. And it felt good, sitting on my porch, scrolling through and erasing you. It felt cleansing.
You know the funny thing? When I think of you, I still think of the Nick I met on the playground in 4th grade, piling up woodchips so you could kick them over. I refuse to remember you as the weak husk of a person you were when you died.
Melanie and I look through your Facebook pictures together sometimes, in bed, but we stick to the ones before you got sick. So many good memories that we shared. Before it became all about you, and your selfish, stupid illness. I'm glad you're dead, because now, I realize that you were dead to me long ago.
This is a cool copypasta, OP.
Cool story pham. Have a rare Brett.
>The nights spent drinking in food courts, knocking over trash cans in your Jeep, blissing out on acid to Aphex Twin.
Cool story, normie.
Cool oc bro
damn...
Duke...I...
damn...
Cool narative brother.
Cool anecdote family.
What gay shit are you yammering on about, OP?
>>25122871
>>25122876
>>25122904
>>25122919
So what's the story behind this pasta?
